


A Look into the Casket

by Pink_Hills (FantaOpossum)



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1950s, Angst, Death, Drabble, Funerals, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Military Uniforms, Original Character Death(s), Post-World War II, Religion, church, dead spouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 13:01:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22837951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FantaOpossum/pseuds/Pink_Hills
Summary: There’s some tension at Connor’s funeral.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	A Look into the Casket

Irene leaned over the casket. Her feline blue eyes were cold and unwavering, and her face devoid of emotion as she looked upon her husband’s body.

Even in death, Connor remained unchanged. The ash black hair peeking out from underneath his peaked military cap was neatly combed, and his spotted grey fur was short and trimmed according to dress code. Yet his expression remained as stern, solemn, and bitter as ever.

Irene was vexed they had him dressed in his military uniform postmortem. There was no doubt in her mind her husband had taken great pride in his time in the service, but his death was unorthodox in every sense of the word. As far as she was concerned, he was not worthy of wearing his uniform.

Her gaze wandered down to where his chest began, the two medal ribbons above his right coat pocket catching her eye. They were proudly on display, picked clean of dust before the funeral. The medal ribbons were bright and vibrant against the weathered olive drab clothing. She noticed that one of the ribbons was crooked, and adjusted it. Stifling a spry grin, her paws slinked up from his chest to cup his shoulders. She inched closer to him, close enough for her vulpine muzzle to brush up against his ear.

She whispered with poised restraint, “May you rot in the darkest depths of hell, where you belong.”

Irene turned away from the casket and stood next to it, keeping Connor’s body from her line of sight. She looked across the other side of the casket, where Connor’s parents’ and his sister, Alice, were standing. As always, both of his parents were stone-faced. For once in her life, Alice was in a dress instead of dungarees, her wavy hair fluffed out in a soft bob rather than her usual ducktail haircut. Irene winced with worry, hoping none of them had heard her remark. 

She could only feel a twinge of regret watching her children grieve over their deceased father. Her oldest daughter, Katherine, balanced precariously on the tips of her shiny black shoes as she peered into the casket. Irene’s protective instincts rang out alarms, and she yearned to scoop up her daughter and comfort her. Seeing Katherine disturbed over Connor did not sit right with her.

She watched her other two children, Clarisse and Ronnie, approach their father’s casket once Katherine finished her grievances. Clarisse was quiet, staring down at Connor’s body and trembling with distraught. Ronnie’s cries were the loudest when he was next to grieve at the casket, his paws clasping on the side of the casket. He wailed his young heart out as he cried out for his father. 

The sooner her children poured out their feelings about their late father, the sooner the family could heal together. The sooner it happened, the sooner they could forget all the pain and trauma.

Her children went to stand by her and time seemed to ooze by as the numerous guests entered the church. She was not looking forward to having the whole neighborhood here, small as it was.

Irene heard a quiet cough from Barbara, who was first in line. Barbara stared at the casket misty-eyed. The fur underneath her eyes was damp and stained with runny mascara, with only more tears welling up in her eyes to accompany it. Barbara blotted her tears away daintily with a handkerchief. She tucked it away in her knitted clasp bag, and bent over to smooth out a few creases on her expensive cocktail dress.

Irene wanted to sneer at Barbara’s zealous display of grief. She could cry all she wanted to but that wasn’t what gnawed at Irene. It was her attire. At a funeral, of all places, Barbara had the gall to play petty social games by striving to be the prettiest woman in the room. It was only a passing concern, though. Barbara’s risqué antics were not the main issue right now. 

Barbara’s lapine ears dangled with her pearl earrings as she approached Irene. She held one of Irene’s dark golden paws, a tender look in her baby blue eyes as her dainty nose twitched. 

“I am so sorry,” she drawled in her soft, thick Southern accent, “I don’t know what Connor was thinkin’, but he was… he was a good man, I like to think.”

Irene could not help but be taken aback by the sincerity in Barbara’s statement.

Carol the sow was next, who had little condolences to offer as she passed by Alice without a word. Irene didn’t expect Carol to have any to begin with, seeing that she had rarely interacted with Connor outside of obligatory neighborhood parties.

Carol’s husband, Frank, was more distraught at seeing his body, his eyebrows and swine snout tightened in anger while tears dribbled down his cheeks. Irene heard him pat Alice on the back as he went to his seat. 

“I’m gonna miss the guy,” he sobbed.

A slight smile crept onto Irene’s face as she spotted Shirley in line. After the grey sheep paid her respects at the casket, the two women embraced each other in a tight hug. She could feel the soft black wool on Shirley’s face brush against her cheeks as they hugged.

Shirley pulled back, tears bubbling in her eyes. “I can’t believe this is happening, it’s all so sudden! I hope you’re handling this alright.”

Irene shushed her, pulling a handkerchief from her chest pocket. She handed it to Shirley. 

“Here, you can have it. I haven’t used it yet, and I have a feeling you’ll need it more than me,” Irene said.

“Thanks, that’s real thoughtful of you,” Shirley replied.

Irene’s smile was quick to fade once Shirley disappeared into the crowd. After a quick reply to the condolences of Shirley’s husband, she fell back into boredom as the other people in line greeted her. Names, species, and faces blurred by her while she gave them brief appreciation of their concerns.

Irene’s eyes narrowed at the next notable person, Edward. He wore the same service uniform as her husband, only Edward was more decorated with his higher rank. The otter stared down at Connor, his eyes clouded with grief. He sniffled as a single tear ran down his cheek, which dripped onto Connor’s chest. Edward nudged up his round black glasses higher onto his nose bridge. Giving Connor a brief salute, he approached Irene. 

She noted with interest that his gut was more prominent than the last time they met. Edward opened his mouth to say something, but Irene was fast to cut his words off. 

“I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care,” she hissed.

He glared at her, his mouth almost agape. “I was close to him, too, you know. Don’t forget that.”

“Like I said, I don’t care. I’m quite familiar with your history with my husband,” she sneered dismissively, “You can go now.”

Subdued whispers and disapproving stares followed the next person in line. Irene looked over to see who it was, and got hit with a wave of disappointment. 

“What a lot of nerve that tricky wannabe she-bull has waltzing into my husband’s funeral,” she grumbled. 

While his confident and brazen air was gone, his strange dressing mannerisms weren’t. His hair was slicked back and he donned a strange military uniform, similar to Connor’s uniform. Catching the glare from the silver name tag, it read in clear bold lettering,  _ Dearie. _ She grimaced, her eyes trailing down from the tag to the neatly polished medals and ribbons. How could someone so shameful have that much recognized valor? Irene, shifting uncomfortably in place, felt tempted to call the police on Dearie, but she didn’t want to make too much of a scene.

She watched Dearie with curiosity as she looked upon Connor’s body. His face didn’t reveal much, nor did his body language. Without thinking, Irene grimaced when Dearie advanced towards her.

Dearie put a hoof on Irene’s shoulder as he continued, “I am so sorry—”

Irene faked a loud sniffle, and wiped the corner of her eyes. “Oh, thank—”

“—that you had to be stuck with such a shit husband.”

Irene’s eyes widened, blinking a couple of times in rapid succession. 

She struggled to hold back a slight smirk. “Thank you for understanding the depth of my loss.”

She watched with bubbling, yet restrained condescension as the rest of the people in line approached Connor’s casket to pay their respects. She had no care for what they thought of her late husband; it was most likely false impressions, lies instilled into their head by him. 

Once the visitation line had dwindled down, Irene went to her seat on the front pew, her children following close behind. When Katherine went to her seat next to her mother, she stifled a sob as she leaned into Irene’s side. Irene put an arm around her daughter, trying her best to soothe her daughter’s tears, despite her own starting to surface. She focused her energy on comforting her daughter, only paying fleeting mind to her other two children who sat by her. 

Irene’s eyes glazed over as the pastor started to recite a sermon about holding onto faith and trusting in God’s word. His raspy, feeble voice droned on and on how faith was only untouchable when placed in Christ’s name. It was a particularly irrelevant sermon, and a waste of words in her eyes. Despite her choosing it with the guidance of the funeral director, it had been more so his decision at the end of the day. 

There was no doubt in her mind Connor would be nodding off from boredom if he had to sit through it with her. He would be sneaky enough to slip a paw around her waist, taking his sweet time as he felt his way around. She shuddered at the thought, and began to feel her eyes watering again. Her shudders increased into a tumultuous tremble, as she gripped her daughter tighter. She ran her paw along her daughter’s back, trying to get her to stop crying. In a sense, Irene was doing it to stop herself from breaking down, from blubbering like a madwoman. Wiping her eyes with her dress sleeve, for a moment she regretted giving her handkerchief to Shirley, and cursed herself for forgetting to bring extra tissues. 

Irene stood up as the pastor directed everyone to sing the hymn Amazing Grace. For a moment, She looked around the room as everyone rose, taking in the somber, stuffy atmosphere of the room. She felt as if she could sense the disingenuousness in everyone’s expressions. She spotted Barbara, who surveyed the room before tugging at her dress so it would be a little more revealing. Irene sneered. As usual, Barbara’s husband was completely oblivious about the matter, and so were her many children.

Irene’s gaze looked away from the crowd, and back to the church stage as she belted out the poetic words of the hymn with everyone else. Her eyes drifted everywhere, desperate to avoid looking at Connor’s body. She wandered from the American flag draped over the end of Connor’s casket, to the decorated stained glass windows lined up on the walls perpendicular to the pews. Singing about grace saving a wretch like her, her gaze became drawn to a painted scene of a group of people praying near a wooden crucifix. The art in the windows always fascinated her to some extent, and it was one of the few things she looked forward to when she first started coming to the local church. 

She took her seat one the hymn finished. Her body started to feel numb, like static was worming through her veins. Her paws began quivering when she heard Alice’s voice as she recited a psalm. She would be next. Her claws sank into her dress, causing minuscule tears to the black linen fabric. All eyes would be on her, and everyone would expect her words to be genuine. 

Digging underneath the pew, she fished up her papers and shuffled them into a neat presentation again. She stared down at the words on the paper with disdain. It was impossible for her to understand how she managed to write the entire thing. The process had been no better than slogging through fire and brimstone, and it had hurt her that much to do it at all. It wracked Irene’s brain to think about singing Connor’s praises, but she had no choice. 

A hushed silence fell over the church as Irene stumbled up from her seat and made her way to the podium on the stage. She passed by Connor’s parents, but could not bring herself to make a gesture of condolence to them, much less utter a word of pity. Shuffling her papers once again, she stared into the depths of the crowd. She was met with a melancholy, but curious gaze from them.

Irene looked down at her papers, and began to read the eulogy she had written.

“My husband, Connor Wolfe, was nothing short of a wonderful man,” she stated.

A lump was starting to form in her throat. She gripped the sides of the podium, struggling to hold back her rising rage. Irene looked back up at the audience, her leer at the audience growing more vacant, and her words colder than the ocean rain.

“He-he was… loved... by me… and our three young children, including our adopted son. He was adored by his colleagues and neighbors for his strong work ethic, honorable nature, and patriotism. Connor lived up to those ideals by his extensive time in the service, before settling down into a stable career to support his household.”

Irene’s sharp claws dug into the wooden podium as she continued, “He-he was born to… he was born to...”

Her eyes caught onto Barbara’s and her paws shook harder seeing the perplexed and angry look on her face. How could she sit there and watch her drabble on about fairy tales about values Connor never had? 

Her gaze darted to Edward’s face, and she wanted to scream in rage. How could he not see the destructive nature he and the others had contributed to, how could they not see the monster they created?

Memories flashed through her head faster than a rapid-fire gun, and her voice froze. Tears dripped onto the paper she spent countless nights slaving over. She looked up and could feel everyone’s eyes boring into her. The church was completely silent, to the point where she could hear her own nervous, erratic breathing.

Snatching the papers, Irene leaped from the stage and shoved them into Alice’s paws. She ran down the side aisle, her heels echoing in the spacious room, before retreating into the vestibule. Leaning against the walls, she stared ahead aimlessly, her gaze stuck on the front church door. She slid down into a crouch, hiding her face in her paws. 

She let out a whimper as she wept.


End file.
